The Beginning of a Circle
by j'ecrive.en.anglais
Summary: Torchwood crossover. John and Sherlock meet Torchwood for the first time. J/S
1. One

**A/N: This story just wouldn't let me go! I've wanted to see John meet Ianto for quite a while. I've got the whole thing written, and I'll be sure to post it when I've gotten in all typed up. I've planned it as a two shot, although it may expand into three parts. Although I've set it as John/Sherlock and Jack/Ianto established relationships, there isn't much romantic fluff. I don't see any of them as particularly sappy. Just because they're in love, it won't change any of their personalities. I guess that's all. Allons-y!**

"Sherlock, I'm still not sure what we're looking for."

Cardiff. The Millennium Plaza. John Watson was shooting Sherlock Holmes an exasperated look.

"Hush, John. I need to focus."

John hushed. But inside, he was more than a little irritated. Being woken up at five to come to Cardiff was harsh, even by Sherlock's standards. He hadn't even gotten his morning cuppa, for god's sakes. He'd had to make do with the swill they served in the coffee shop at the train station. He wasn't much of a fan of caffeinated sludge, but it woke him up, and that was the main thing. He'd even got some of his patient records sorted while on the train, once he'd gotten used to typing against the jump and stutter of the rails. Even if this impromptu trip went completely down the tubes, the day would not be a total waste.

Still, he would have preferred it if Sherlock had taken some time out of the three hour train ride to actually explain what they were doing. He had prowled up and down the corridor of the train, scanning the other passengers carefully and muttering his deductions to John. John had followed him for a bit, but when Sherlock started loudly announcing which members of a certain school group were cheating on each other, John decided that it would be safer to hunker down in a car for a while to get some work done. After two and a half tours in Afghanistan and three years with Sherlock, there was still nothing that scared him more than an enraged teenage girl.

Well, maybe the smell of chlorine.

But anyways. Back to the present.

"Ah! I've got it!" Sherlock cried. He had been staring intently at the fountain for the past few minutes, but he appeared to have finally reached some sort of conclusion which involved grabbing John's upper arm and dragging him towards it post-haste. John wasn't even particularly startled. Sherlock only had two speeds; full throttle and full stop. He ricocheted between them suddenly and unpredictably, and usually John found it endearing. He was not in such a charitable mood today, however.

"What're you doing? Sherlock- Sherlock!" John tried to protest, but Sherlock ignored him. He stopped suddenly on a particular paving stone just before the fountain, and John nearly fell flat on his face. The detective had to grab his shoulders to keep him upright.

"For god's sakes, Sherlock, would you just explain-"

"No time for that, John! We have to be positioned just right, I believe." Sherlock gazed down at John's feet, one of which was partially on another paving stone. He shook his head, and, reaching forwards with his foot, kicked John's ankle until John moved the offending foot slightly forwards.

John wasn't entirely sure how a normal person would react to this situation. He was completely nonplussed, and if Sherlock had decided to take them all the way to Cardiff for another game of 'the floor is lava'...

Any further protests died on his lips as the paving stone began to descend.

"Wouldn't even know it was here, unless you looked hard enough." Sherlock said conversationally, as John tried to gather himself yet again. "Then again, no one ever looks hard enough. No one but me, that is. Or maybe Mycroft."

They were entering into a cavernous room, full of shining metal, stark concrete, and far more technology than John had ever seen in one place. And he had visited Mycroft's office. John shrugged off Sherlock's arms, still gripping his shoulders, and turned on the spot, trying to drink in as much of this curious place as he could. Then he heard a squawk from behind him, and turned around, and-

"Sherlock, is that a pterodactyl?"

Sherlock contemplated the creature. "Not sure. Maybe we should have brought Anderson."

John snorted.

"Yes, well, if it is a pterodactyl, we're in the right place."

The lift hit the ground, and Sherlock hopped off, while John followed more tentatively. The moment all four of their feet were on solid ground, an unmistakably Welsh voice said, "Freeze. Hands in the air."

Slowly, John and Sherlock raised their hands.

"We don't mean any harm." Sherlock called. John caught his eye, and grinned. Whether they meant harm or not, they could usually manage to make anyone's day a bit weirder. Although, seeing as how this Welsh chap spent his time in an underground bunker filled with technology that John was sure you couldn't buy at an Apple store, they might well have their work cut out for them.

"We're unarmed, Mr. Jones." Sherlock continued. John was sure he had somehow deduced the unseen man's name, and was now using it to unsettle him and gain the upper hand. One of Sherlock's favorite tactics, in fact. "Well, I am at least. I believe I've forgotten my gun at home."

"As always." John muttered.

"Yes, yes. My colleague, however, has a British Army Browning L9A1 in the back of his jacket. I believe he also has my gun in his computer bag, as well as a small bottle of mace in the cell phone pocket. Anything else, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I suppose I could use my computer bag itself as a sort of bludgeon. And I've got my letter opener, that's rather sharp."

Sherlock scoffed. "Why do you have your letter opener? You haven't brought any letters."

"Sherlock, I know you've already deduced that I dropped it in there accidentally last night. Why do you bother asking?"

While they bantered back and forth, the elusive Mr. Jones stepped out from behind a tall glass and metal tower. He wore a headset, an impeccable suit and a scowl, and he held both a large device which looked to John like a GPS (but was clearly not) and a frankly impressive gun.

"Ah, yes. Hello, Mr. Jones." Sherlock said. "It's good to see you, however much I enjoy conversing with your furniture." Sherlock paused, tilted his head, and gazed at the stranger. He momentarily wore what John sometimes referred to as his 'deducing face'. The calculating expression was gone as quickly as it had come, though, and it was replaced with a smile that was clearly intended to be friendly. Clearly, Sherlock deemed this man important enough to attempt to get along with him. John straightened up. This Jones fellow must be very important indeed.

"You watch too many Bond films, you know." Sherlock continued. "You have a rather inflated sense of drama. Although that can be forgiven in your line of work." John didn't say anything to that. But Sherlock Holmes, of the giant flapping bat coat, telling anyone about their inflated sense of drama? The flaming hypocrite. John stored the moment carefully in his memory. He would most definitely want to bring this up later, when Sherlock was moping about the flat, whining about being bored.

Jones shifted his weight slightly, glancing back and forth between the two intruders. "Yes, well. You were honest about the weapons. So you've either got something we can't detect, which is unlikely, or you don't think you need them. Either way, you're to be reckoned with."

Sherlock looked pleased. "Oh yes, very good. You see, John? Not everyone is as dull as the imbeciles at the Yard. It's a pity Mr. Jones here isn't in charge, or our jobs would be quite a bit easier. Even if he is already in control of the entire operation, just by virtue of making himself vital."

"What operation, Sherlock?" John asked. "You still haven't told me why we're here."

"We're Torchwood." Jones said.

"Oh yes, very good, Mr. Jones." Sherlock cut in. "You can give us information with impunity, because you know you can just retcon us, don't you? Except you clearly don't know how I found out, or you would have stopped me. And you wouldn't be able to get it out of my head without erasing great swathes of memory, and you don't want to do that, do you? It wouldn't be right."

"We've done before." Jones said, but his brow furrowed, and his eyes clouded, and John sensed that this was bringing back memories the young man did not look upon fondly.

"Er, retcon?" John asked hastily, trying to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. "Erasing memories? I've never heard of Torchwood. Who exactly are you people?"

"Cardiff sits on a rift in time and space, John." Sherlock said calmly. "These people work 'outside the government and beyond the police', isn't that the phrase? They watch for aliens. If an alien shows up here, they find it and deal with it. Keeping the rest of the world in their happy ignorance."

"Hold on a second." John said. "Aliens? You mean, like little green men? Living on Mars, the whole bit? And these guys are, what, our interstellar tourist agency?"

"Crude but accurate." Sherlock agreed. "However, I don't believe there is anyone on Mars at the moment. Mycroft would have told me."

"Wow." John said. "Aliens. In Wales. This is... it's a lot to take in."

Jones frowned, and lowered his gun. "That's it?" he asked John. "He tells you that there are aliens, and you believe him, just like that?"

"I trust him." John said simply. And he did. Sherlock wouldn't lie to him, not like this. And if it was a lie, well, Sherlock must have a damn good reason for it. He knew John wouldn't be above moving to the upstairs bedroom for a few nights if it meant Sherlock would come up with a really good apology.

"Now that we've got that over with..." Sherlock said testily, "We'll be wanting a word with your boss."

"My boss?" Jones said.

"Yes, Jones." Sherlock said in his best 'don't be thick' tone. "Tall, dramatic fellow from the future? You're shagging him, so I certainly hope you can remember his name."

Jones went slightly red, and raised the gun again to cover this. "How do you know all this? Where are you getting your information?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And I thought you were clever. It's obvious, isn't it? You've got the smell of rather strong cologne on you. Immaculate suit like yours, you wouldn't pick out such a ridiculous scent yourself. So, boyfriend. There's no other sign of him on you, so, someone you don't think it's appropriate to be with. Not a subordinate, no, you've only got five or six people working here judging by the number of workstations. There aren't enough of employees for you to have any subordinates. So, your boss. He outranks you, but a dramatic man who wears lots of cologne probably isn't the type to know the records back and forth like you do. He must have more field experience than you if you've not been promoted above him. But that isn't quite enough, is it? This is a rift in time and space; he must have come through at some point. If he knows earth well enough to keep you this well hidden, he's likely from here. Being from the past is pointless, that's what we have history books for. No, he's from the future. But not the distant future, just far enough away that he's got some impressive-looking knowledge. John!" he said, interrupting himself. "How long ago was the first recognizable human civilization?"

"Er-"

"A rough estimate is fine."

John reached back into the depths of his memory to his Year Eleven history class. When his poor teacher had tried to convince him that they were learning things that would be relevant to the world, he doubted this was what she intended. "Four, five thousand years, I'd say."

"There you go then, Mr. Jones." Sherlock said. "I'd estimate your boss, the elusive Captain Harkness, is from no further in the future than the year seven thousand. More likely closer to four."

"And how did you know that he was dramatic?" Jones asked. He looked impressed, despite himself.

"Mr. Jones. You are a quiet archivist who spends his free time reading files. You had to have learned that Bond impression from someone."

"Right on the money."

A tall American was descending the stairs behind Jones. He got to the bottom, and went to stand beside his coworker. For a wild second, John was reminded of a showdown, with two cowboys standing at a safe distance spitting insults and tobacco. Except there were two to a side instead of just one, and it wasn't the Old West but twenty first century Cardiff, and instead of six-guns and horses, they had lasers and a pterodactyl.

All right, so it was nothing like a showdown. That didn't stop John from moving his hand backwards to rest it on his gun. Better safe than sorry.

"I'm Captain Jack Harkness." said the American. "This is Ianto Jones. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. And this is Doctor John Watson, my colleague."

John did not miss the brief look of surprise that crossed the Captain's face before he schooled his features back to slightly less hostile neutrality. John exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock to confirm that of course the consulting detective had also taken note. Interesting. So the anachronistically-dressed American had already heard of them. John wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I believe you have had previous dealings with my brother Mycroft." Sherlock said. Again, another indicator as to the importance of these Torchwood blokes. Sherlock hated having to name-drop his brother, so the fact that he was doing it now showed that he didn't want to leave their good reception to chance.

"Yes, we owe quite a lot to Mr. Holmes." Ianto said, lowering his gun but not relinquishing it. John frankly was not surprised that Mycroft had dealing with aliens. He could probably relate to them quite well.

"Enough niceties, then." Sherlock said, and the Captain looked distinctly relieved. Enough time spent with Mycroft and his particular brand of protracted diplomacy could do that to you.

"We have reason to believe that Torchwood London is killing test subjects and disposing of them on the streets."

The relief on the Captain's face was gone as quickly as it had come. John didn't blame him. This must have been what Sherlock was working on for the past few weeks. There had been quite a few corpses found for which Sherlock had been unable to identify any possible suspects. He had been getting tetchier too, but John had chalked that down to his frustration at having failed. John hadn't suspected that he had been coming up with theories, but hiding them from the police. Although he wasn't sure he blamed Sherlock. John didn't want to imagine what Lestrade would say if they turned up in his office, talking about aliens. He felt sure it would involve straightjackets, though, and would probably make Anderson's day.

"What is your 'reason to believe'?" the Captain asked.

"There was mud on the shoes of all the victims, and it came from near Torchwood one headquarters, implying that the last time the victims had gone outside under their own power had been when they entered the building. They all died in very improbable ways, unless you factor in some technology which we will be theoretically able to create at some point during the future. One man had some slime on him, and the DNA in it didn't match anything I've ever seen before, and didn't appear to be from this planet, due to its complete evolutionary independence to any known creature. It was all there, you just had to look!"

"Sherlock, I don't think we can blame the police for not considering aliens as the cause of death." John chided him.

"John, when you've eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock said loftily.

"The last time you said that, you told me that the murderer was from a Balinese cult because you didn't realize that 'the angels have the phone box' is a quote from Doctor Who."

"Irrelevant, John."

"All right!"

John and Sherlock turned back to face Captain Harkness, who seemed as though he might have been amused at their bickering if they hadn't just informed him that members of his organization had been murdering innocent Londoners. "Holmes, come to my office. We can discuss this there."

Captain Harkness turned and strode up the stairs to his office, closely followed by Sherlock. Each on his own might have looked impressive. But the juxtaposition of both of their ostentatious coats side by side just looked faintly ridiculous.

Once they were both through the door and out of sight, he realized that he had just been left alone with a gun-wielding Welshman. He looked at Ianto apprehensively. Ianto smiled, and put down his gun.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Couldn't have put it better myself." John replied.


	2. Two

**A/N: So I am officially an idiot. As a friendly commenter pointed out, John should most definitely not be quoting Doctor Who. The paradoxes that introduces… I'm not even going to go there. Let's pretend he referenced Harry Potter, or Britain's Got Talent, or something else unobtrusive, okay?**

**Also, you know how I said this would be two parts? I lied. When this hit 2k and they hadn't left the Hub, it became clear to me that a succinct two-parter this was not. I'll try for three, though. **

"…I swear, half the scrapes he gets himself into. He's a bloody genius, even has the papers to prove it, but he hasn't a clue about how to relate to normal people. He can tell you what you had for breakfast, but he can't understand why you wouldn't want him to."

Ianto laughed. "I know! The number of times Jack's got his arse kicked, flirting with the wrong bloke. I want to blame it on him being from the future, but sometimes I think he gets a kick out of it."

"Yeah, Sherlock's the same way. It's like taunting Anderson is the new national sport, or something."

John and Ianto were sitting in the kitchen, the closest thing the Hub had to a break room. Ianto was sipping coffee, and John had made himself some tea. Jack and Sherlock were still upstairs, discussing whatever it was they were discussing, and none of the other Torchwood team members had made their way to work yet.

"You should see Jack and Owen when their having one of their spats." Ianto agreed. "Oh, and especially when Owen insults me. I tell Jack that I'm an adult, that I can deal with the wanker-"

"Yeah, Sherlock nearly punched Anderson in the face when he called me a cripple."

Ianto winced. "I can only imagine. Jack is bad enough when they call me his 'part-time shag'."

John took a long sip of his tea. "No, it wasn't pretty. It's a ruddy miracle that they still let us on crime scenes, what with the way he treats the police."

Ianto laughed. "That sounds familiar. The Cardiff police probably hate us just as much as the London do you. Jack's seduced and then ignored at least three-quarters of them by now, and the rest are all secretly in love with him. He's a one man home-wrecker, and I'd probably be up to here with it by now if I didn't find it hilarious."

John frowned. "But, aren't you two…?"

"Together? Yeah. But that's fairly recent." Ianto took a sip of his coffee. "I suppose I couldn't ignore what his braces did to me any longer, you know what I mean?" Then he flushed a little. "I mean, I'm not trying to imply anything…"

John raised his hand to head off the awkward apology. "No, it's fine. You should see Sherlock's scarf collection! Christ, I didn't even know I liked men before I met him."

"It was quite the same for me. I used to consider myself strictly heterosexual before I got this job. I suppose I'm rather Jack-sexual now."

John giggled into his mug. "Ooh, that's a good one. I may have to try it out on Harry. 'Sherlock-sexual' has a rather nice ring to it, doesn't it? Harry's my sister." he clarified, in response to Ianto's questioning look. "She's the first person I told about… you know."

"At least you got to tell her on your terms, though." Ianto said. "Mine heard tell of me going on a date with Jack uptown, and then she guilted it out of me. And I think she must have told all her mates, because I keep getting emails from all these girls I've never met moaning about their boyfriend problems."

John winced. "That's bad. My sister's properly gay, so she's not likely to pull one of those on me. But my ex-girlfriend slips up every once in a while. I haven't the heart to tell her that unless her boyfriend sees a corpse as a thoughtful gift, I'm not really the bloke to ask."

"Jack shot my ex-girlfriend." Ianto remarked.

"What? Why?"John asked, in the tone of someone who has completely lost their ability to be surprised.

"Oh, it wasn't like that. There were extenuating circumstances."

"He must have had one hell of an excuse."

"Well, she was trying to murder us all."

John sipped his tea resignedly. "You _are_ going to explain this, aren't you?"

"Well, I used to work in the London branch of Torchwood. And it all started when…"

oOo

"I can't help but wonder why a mad, wonderful, amazing man like Sherlock stays with a worn out doctor like me." John was saying. It was clear that Jack and Sherlock were going to be a while, and as they had both run out of stories, they had adjourned to the autopsy bay. Ianto was showing John a few corpses that Owen hadn't had much luck with, and while he worked, John was finding himself confiding all his worries in the younger man.

Tosh had turned up a while ago, but a small man in an oatmeal jumper who was clearly friendly with Ianto wasn't anything that could phase a seasoned Torchwood operative. Perhaps if it had been a shape-shifting jumper- but no, she had merely nodded hello and then gone off to immerse herself in whatever hr current project was.

"I keep wondering when it's going to stop, you know?" John was saying, as he manipulated the corpses fingers. "When his interest is going to fade. He's going to wake up one morning, and realize that- sorry, did you notice the puncture marks in this tattoo?"

Ianto leaned closer. Sure enough, there were three perfectly round holes partially concealed by the tattoo of a robin on the cadaver's upper arm.

"Good eye." he said, making a note for Owen to investigate further.

"Oh, it's nothing. I guess the deducing wears off a bit, after a while."

Ianto sighed. "Yeah. You were saying? How you're afraid that it will stop? I am too, sometimes." He sat down on the computer chair, and looked at John. It was a relief, for both of them, to have someone to talk to who understood. Someone in a similar situation was not something either of them had held out hope of finding.

"We were just starting, six months ago. I had only just admitted to myself that it was actually happening, that I actually fancy him. And then he left.

"How could I possibly compete with the Doctor? He's wonderful, even I can see that. He travels through time in a police box for god's sakes, he's loud and fascinating and everything I'm not.

"And I know Jack came back, and he's with me and everything is ruddy brilliant. But what happens when the Doctor comes back and says 'all aboard'?"

John nods, and starts putting away the surgical instruments. "Jim Moriarty." he said, wiping off a scalpel with perhaps more force than was necessary.

Ianto looked at him questioningly.

"He's the nuttiest psychopath I've ever met. And when_ I_ say that, it means something. He's the only person who can match Sherlock intellectually. Whenever Moriarty's at large, he's all Sherlock cares about. They were practically made for each other, there's no room in that for me. Sherlock disappeared for three years chasing after him, and I had to pick up the pieces of my life. I didn't even know if he was alive.

"Of course, I did push him off a waterfall about a year ago, so there's that. But Sherlock says he might be still out there, somewhere. And I don't want to know what will happen when he comes back." John took off his rubber gloves, and tossed them in the trash. There was silence for a few seconds, and then he started laughing.

"God, look at us." he said. "We're both crazy, you know that? We should start a support group. 'Well-organized-men-who-make-brilliant-tea-and-were-turned-gay-by-their-mad-bastard-boyfriends-who-wear-silly-coats-anonymous. We'd attract new members by the dozens!"

Ianto cracked a smile. "The membership badge would take up your entire chest."

"Are you insulting my size, young man?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "I'll have you know-"

"Oi! Teaboy! Who the hell is this, and what are you doing in my autopsy bay?"

A short, irate man was standing at the top of the stairs. John was slightly put out by the venom in his voice, but Ianto was nonplussed.

"He's your replacement, Owen. He's slightly more qualified than you, as he can actually manage to understand alphabetical order."

"Er, hi." John said, with an awkward wave. "I'm John Watson, and he's kidding. At least, I hope so. I _do_ have a day job, not that anyone seems to care."

A woman with rather unfortunate teeth appeared at the top of the stairs. "Oh, hello there. I'm Gwen Cooper, and this is Owen. And you are?"

"John Watson." he repeated. "I'm just waiting for my colleague to finish his meeting with Captain Harkness. Ianto was just showing me around."

"It turns out we have a lot in common." Ianto said, deadpan.

"Really?" Owen said. "Because if-"

It was then that all hell broke loose.

All of a sudden, there were bright lights flashing and an odd sort of siren blaring. John and Ianto ran up the stairs, only to be greeted by a determined looking Jack and an excited looking Sherlock. Owen and Gwen looked thrown by the sudden presence of two men in ridiculous coats.

The clamour ceased as quickly as it had begun.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tosh called, as the dashed over to the group gathered by the sub-atomic etherizer. "Accident. I didn't mean to- but now that you're all here, we've got two Weevils on the corner of Engels and Main. They're big ones, but three people should do it."

"Right." Jack said. "Ianto, and-"

"John, get your bag. We're coming too." Sherlock said.

"What? You're mad." said Owen. "We don't even know who the hell you are."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Harper. I don't believe we've been introduced." Sherlock said, and he was using his most falsely polite expression. "You see, I do believe discretion will be required on this venture, as the location is so close to an all-night supermarket. And I do believe that is a trait you lack, judging by how poorly you are hiding your affair with Miss Cooper. But I suspect most of the world will not be quite as unobservant as her husband. Excuse me, boyfriend."

Gwen turned a bright scarlet, but Tosh smiled into her hand.

"Sorry." John said, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't. "But four is better than three."

"Oh yes it is." Jack said. "Especially this one time, on-"

"Sir." Ianto said, and Jack stopped, much to John's chagrin. He would have liked to see where that story was going.

Owen scoffed. "Like those two would be any help."

"I think we should bring them along." Ianto said, unexpectedly. "Dr. Watson is rather good at unarmed combat."

Jack raised his eyebrows.

"Two tours in Afghanistan." John said. "Well, two and a half. Army doctor, combat experience."

"And it would be better to have three people left here who know the procedure than two and two visitors who would only get in the way." Ianto added.

"Get in the way!" Sherlock said, as if the very idea was beneath him. "I probably know your procedures better than you do."

"Code Blue." Owen challenged.

"Alien viral disease outbreak in cell blocks B through G. Two team members initiate lockdown, the Archives are sealed, and the Hub is placed in quarantine for no less than two days." Sherlock smiled, and added; "Of course, the quarantine will be an exercise in futility unless the east air vent is replaced with a recycler."

John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock would want to show off, even if it meant he was directly contradicting the argument which might get them what they wanted.

"Do we even have an east air vent?" Gwen asked.

"I should hope so." Tosh said. "Or else we'd all have suffocated by now.

Sherlock looked at Owen expectantly. "Well? Am I correct?"

Owen baulked. "How the hell should I know?"

"Yes, you are. And you have a good point about the vents." Ianto confirmed.

"Maybe you two _should_ be replacing him." Tosh muttered.

"Oi, don't you start! I want these freaks out of the Hub." Owen said. Sherlock stiffened at the epithet, and John quickly stepped in before he could cast any more aspersions on the volatile man's character.

"I agree, Doctor Harper." John said. "We should leave the Hub immediately. We have a train to catch. But I'm sure we have enough time before then to help Captain Harkness and Mr. Jones catch a few weevils before we go."

"Well done." Sherlock muttered in his ear. Owen sputtered a little, and Tosh and Gwen seemed to be having difficulty holding back their giggles.

Jack deliberated for a few more seconds, then nodded. "Right. Ianto, Holmes, Watson, with me. Tosh, take the headset. Owen, Gwen-"

"Examine Dr. Watson's notes." Ianto slipped in smoothly. "I believe he had found some new evidence on five of the cadavers."

If Sherlock had been anyone else, you might have described his smile as proud. Of course it would take fiddling around with dead bodies to elicit pride in the man, why would John have ever thought any different?

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" said Captain Jack. He and Sherlock swept out the cog door, with John and Ianto following a little ways behind them. They could hear Owen complaining loudly behind them, but they pointedly paid him no mind.

"Thanks, for that." John said quietly to Ianto. "You didn't have to."

"Hey, we're both members of the same very exclusive society. I had to stick up for you."

"Speaking of which, I think we need a new name."

"What? Is there something wrong with well-organized-men-who-make-brilliant-tea-and-were-turned-gay-by-their-mad-bastard-boyfriends-who-wear-silly-coats-anonymous?"

John raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed you remembered all that."

"Eidetic memory. It comes in handy."

"I'll bet."

"But what else would you suggest calling our organization? I'd be hard-pressed to come up with as accurate a summary as that."

"In two words? Don't ask."

Ianto smiled. "Yes, that does cover it, doesn't it? The DA. Although it's a bit Harry Potter."

"Fine by me."

"Well, then-"

"Would you two hurry up!" Jack yelled, already in the SUV. "The weevils won't catch themselves, you know!"

"We shouldn't keep them waiting." John grinned. "By the way, what's a weevil?"


	3. Three

**Author's note is at the end.**

"Left here!" Sherlock shouted. Instinctively, Jack twisted the wheel to the left, and they went skidding down a short alleyway.

"Holmes, what are you-"

"There is no time! Get out! Quickly, before they go by!"

The four men leapt out of the SUV. On one side, Sherlock and Ianto jumped down and chased a fleeing weevil down the alley, managing to capture it and spray it with only a minor scratch to Ianto's forearm. Unfortunately, the SUV had pulled in directly between the two creatures, and when John and Jack jumped out they were greeted by a terrified weevil charging directly towards them. John, always the quick draw, got it full in the face with weevil-repellent, but not before it got a good swipe in at Jack's throat.

Jack fell to the ground unceremoniously on top of the weevil. John, fear stirring in his stomach and mixing uncomfortably with the adrenaline (because he was a doctor, and he knew how little chance Jack had of surviving that shot), made to bend down and help the Captain, but his knee had rather abruptly gone stiff as a board.

Ianto and Sherlock came running around the boot of the van, their exhilarated grins swiftly dropping off their faces.

"Damn it. Not again." Ianto said, which seemed to John to be a rather callous reaction to the death of your partner. And it certainly was death; there was no mistaking it now. Even someone not trained as a doctor couldn't have mistaken that blow as anything other than fatal.

So why was he not particularly surprised when Captain Jack all of a sudden came gasping to life? It was a rare day that could start with a pterodactyl flying at one's head, and still manage to become more bizarre with every turn. If the Queen turned up at 221B that night in her nightie, John didn't think he would have the energy to be shocked.

"You died. You were definitely dead. You died, but you're not dead now?" John asked, acutely aware of how stupid he must sound.

"You've got the gist of it, yeah." Jack said, hopping to his feet. "Damn, I hate it when I get blood on my coat. This thing is a pain to dry clean."

"Like you'd know." Ianto retorted, and then he shook his head. "Not important. Jack, we didn't tell them rule number one!"

"Rule number one?" Sherlock asked, apparently not phased by the death and subsequent resurrection of their new friend.

"Don't try and save me." Jack said, and there was a certain weariness in his voice that made him seem quite a bit older than he looked. "Don't risk your lives for mine. Even if it's something like you breaking your arm versus me dying. Because, I can die. And I do, quite a lot. It just never seems to stick."

John looked from Jack to Ianto to Sherlock, trying to see if they were having him on.

"Right." he sighed. "Let's see that, then." he said, gesturing towards Ianto's forearm. "Don't want that getting infected."

"How did you know where to find the weevils?" Jack asked Sherlock, as John retrieved his computer bag from the vehicle and pulled out a frankly impressive amount of medical supplies. "We'd have lost them, if it wasn't for you."

"It wasn't that difficult." Sherlock replied, watching John swabbing Ianto's cut. "I merely calculated their average speed from Miss Sato's screens, and then calculated their probably trajectory based on my mental map of Cardiff. It would have been less dangerous to head them off at the end of this street, but if we had delayed further I calculated a 72.4 percent chance of possible civilian injuries."

Jack nodded. "Impressive."

"It is, isn't it?"

John rolled his eyes. "Mr. Modesty, that's you."

"John, what is the point of modesty? It is in everyone's best interests to know the exact extent of other's skills. Would it help to solve crimes if I pretended to be as dull as the rest of you?"

"I don't suppose the two of you would consider joining Torchwood?" Jack suggested. "Although not to replace Owen. I get the feeling I'll be stuck with him for far too long."

"No, thank you." John said firmly. "Not that it's not tempting, but we like London. And I don't fancy joining up with a bunch of murderers, if your suspicions about the London branch are accurate."

"In fact, we're supposed to be leaving for London in, oh, fifteen and a half minutes." Sherlock said.

John checked his phone, and swore. "We're going to be late for our meeting with Dimmock!"

"We would offer you a ride, but we've got to deal with these two." Ianto said, gesturing to the weevil lying ignored at their feet.

"Not to worry. I know a shortcut." Sherlock said.

"Of course you do." John said good-naturedly. He made to put his phone away, but stopped. "Here, Ianto, d'you want my cell number?"

"Already got it, I'm afraid." Ianto replied. "Scanned your phone when you got in the Hub. It's a routine procedure, nothing personal."

"Of course you did! You wouldn't happen to know a woman named Anthea, would you?"

"John, that's not her real name." Sherlock called from the corner. "Do hurry up!"

"I'd better go." John said, already backing away. "We'll have to talk sometime, though. Have tea, or something. Text me!" He turned, and dashed away after Sherlock.

oOo

"Sir," Ianto began hesitantly, after they had loaded up the weevils, and were on their way back to the Hub. "When John and Sherlock introduced themselves, right after you turned up, you gave them an odd look. Do you remember why?"

"Ianto, I was behind you. How the hell do you know what kind of look I was giving anyone?"

"John asked me about it. I told him I hadn't a clue."

"Ah. Well… I don't really remember. Sorry."

"Pull the other one, Jack."

"No! I, uh-"

"I will spend my nights at my flat for two weeks if you don't tell me."

Jack winced. "You play hardball. Actually, speaking of hardball, there was this guy I met from Betelgeuse one time, did I ever tell you about-"

"Jack."

"Okay, okay. But I need you to promise this never goes beyond the walls of this SUV."

Intriged, Ianto nodded. "'Course."

"Right. So, when I was a kid, there were these fairytales my mom used to tell me every night 'fore I went to sleep. They were brilliant detective stories; me and my friends would run around pretending to be the great detective and his best friend. And they were all set around the end of the second millennium, beginning of the first."

Ianto opened his mouth to speak, and then let it hang there. He hadn't been expecting that. "You mean-"

"That's right. The adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John Watson. Three thousand years and we still remembered their names perfectly. But when I was a teenager, my mom explained to me how they were just fairytales. One of the last things she ever told me, actually. She explained that they couldn't be true, because most of the things they did were impossibly anachronistic. How could two men in the twenty first century get their hands on gear that hadn't been invented until the early 4500's?"

"Do you mean like the weapons scanner Sherlock pocketed?"

"Oh good, so you noticed too."

"He wasn't exactly subtle about it. But you didn't say anything, so I figured…"

"Yeah, they're going to need it. It saves John's life, actually, if my memory serves."

"It's a good job we didn't notice them take it, then."

Jack laughed. "Yeah, that is lucky, isn't it? But anyways, I was convinced that it was all just made up. Until I joined the time agency. When I got there, they made me learn a whole lot of history. And apparently, the time agency started in the early third millennium. It was originally a project started by-"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

"Exactly!" Jack said, hitting the steering wheel for emphasis, and almost steering them into the incoming lane. An old lady in a sports car gestured rudely at them. "But not just them! See, in the stories my mom told me, it wasn't always just Sherlock and John. They had people to help them, too. Like Mrs. H, their ninja landlady. But the main ones, the ones who were almost as big a part of the stories as John and Sherlock themselves, were a pair of Torchwood agents. Their names didn't survive three thousand years, though. But there was one known as 'I', who knew everything, and his partner 'J', who could tell the future."

"I and J? Are you saying- and J could tell the future?"

"Well, I _have _heard all the stories before. But I wonder. Would you be able to tell me the name of this society, started by Holmes and Watson and I and J, destined to one day become the time agency?"

Ianto's eyes widened. "The DA?"

Jack grinned. "Oh, it's great to be part of history, isn't it?"

Ianto leaned back into his seat. "Wow. I… just… wow. So what happens next?"

"Ianto, as a terrifying woman once told me, 'Spoilers, love'. I can't give away the ending when the story's only just started! But I do have one question."

"Oh?"

"What does the DA stand for? I'm fairly sure it's not 'Dumbledore's Army.'"

"No, it's not."

"That's one of the great mysteries of time, you know. No one's been able to work it out back home."

"Jack… I can't tell you. You'll laugh at me."

"I promise I will not laugh."

Ianto told him. He laughed.

**And that's all, folks! I don't know if I'll continue in this vein, but it's open. I really enjoyed this story, and it feels great to have finally finished a multiple-part story. Thank you all for reading, you're all wonderful people. I'm off to work on Realizations, and to listen to Still Got Legs. Cheers!**


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